


Book Exchange

by minervamoon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21938875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamoon/pseuds/minervamoon
Summary: Aziraphale may have created a tradition of exchanging books on Christmas Eve.  He definitely talked Crowley into exchanging books with him.Last-minute Christmas Fluff inspired by FB posts about Icelandic Christmas traditions and somewhat by A Truth Less Acknowledged by curtaincall
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 91
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	Book Exchange

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Truth Less Acknowledged](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264293) by [curtaincall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall). 



> I should be writing on my other fic, but this wouldn't leave me alone. So I hope you enjoy this random, un-beta'd, rushed story.

Aziraphale swore he had no part in this particular Christmas tradition, but Crowley had his doubts. He knew that Aziraphale had been in Iceland during some part of World War II, and lax restrictions on imported _paper_ seemed oddly specific. It turning into giving books and chocolate to people for Christmas just dripped with Aziraphale’s influence. But, whatever the reason it had come about, it existed, and Aziraphale personally thought it was a lovely tradition. Of course, he would. And when the angel liked something, he wanted to partake. Apparently, he didn’t like a certain demon enough to partake in him, but Crowley wasn’t salty about that, no. Aziraphale was able to get that certain demon to follow the tradition as well, seeing as how he was probably the only person Aziraphale had that he could exchange gifts with. 

Crowley had agreed to it with one caveat, they couldn’t refuse to read the book. Aziraphale had thought that a silly stipulation at the time. Why wouldn’t he read a book? That year Crowley had found the trashiest romance novel he could get his hands on. He’s presented it with a smile that wouldn’t have melted butter and settled himself on Aziraphale’s sofa with the tasteful collection of Arthurian legends Aziraphale had given him. The angel must’ve been feeling a bit nostalgic, Crowley had thought to himself as he watched Aziraphale frown but dutifully begin reading. They spent the entire night reading their respective books, sipping wine, and passing chocolates back and forth. 

Crowley had enjoyed the evening more than he cared to admit. He always enjoyed quiet evenings with Aziraphale more than he cared to admit. He almost, almost felt sorry that he’d given Aziraphale such a horrible book. There was no way the angel would want to do again the next year.

Except that he did. Aziraphale asked again the following year. He didn’t even try to curtail Crowley’s choice of books. Crowley knew that Aziraphale had a copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ stashed away for “research purposes”, so perhaps the angel hadn’t been as scandalized as his flushed face and nervous glances to Crowley had led the demon to believe.

Some years Crowley got Aziraphale horrible books. One year he’d even gone so far as to get him the most horribly written piece of fiction to ever sully the name of Book. That one had almost cracked Aziraphale. Crowley watched him struggle not to reduce the tawdry thing to ash in his hands, and possibly go wipe the blasted book from existence. But he had read it and promptly made Crowley promise not to even think about getting the sequels the next year.

Other years he brought Aziraphale good books or at least decent books. With Aziraphale being such an avid reader, it was harder to find decent ones he hadn’t already read. It became a challenge that Crowley rather enjoyed.

Crowley didn’t try for a new book this year. He knew Aziraphale had read the one he picked out before. They’d spent time over the years discussing it, and the movies that it had inspired. But, Crowley knew when he’d seen the book that it was the one he’d get Aziraphale. He got an extra-large box of chocolate truffles to go with it, and some of Aziraphale’s favorite cocoa too, wrapped the lot up and took it over to the bookshop.

He still breathed a sigh of relief every time he pulled up to the shop and saw it there unsinged. It had only been four months since that day, the day the world had nearly ended. If Aziraphale hadn’t come back, it might as well have had as far as Crowley was concerned. 

There were so many things Crowley wanted to say to Aziraphale, but he just couldn’t get them to come out. He resolved every time he saw the angel to tell him and damn-bless-whatever the consequences. But then he would be there, and everything was just so nice. No reason to fuck it all up now was there?

The bell above the door jingled merrily as Crowley entered the bookshop, wrapped presents under one arm. “Angel?”

“Oh, good,” said Aziraphale, putting his own parcels on a small table near the sofa. There was a bottle of wine and two glasses already waiting. “So glad you’re here. I can properly lock up now. The sign clearly says ‘Closed,’ but people have been knocking all day.”

As if to prove his point there was a knock just behind Crowley. Crowley turned and shouted, “If you can’t read the bloody sign then the last thing you need is a book!” 

The impertinent potential shopper backpedaled away from the door and left quickly. Crowley snapped and the locks slotted home and the blinds were drawn.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, his voice warm and affectionate. “Shall we begin?”

Crowley nodded and waited for Aziraphale to sit down in his chair. They had developed a rhythm to the exchange. Crowley’s gift was always on the table, and Crowley would hand off Aziraphale’s to him as he went to sit down. This time though Aziraphale picked up one of the parcels and walked over to Crowley. 

“This is for you, dear,” said Aziraphale, taking the presents from Crowley with one hand and handing him the wrapped book with the other. Crowley took the gift, his fingers brushing Aziraphale’s hand as he did. The tiny, accidental touch sent shocks through Crowley’s system, but he covered them up with a cough. 

“Top one,” said Crowley, pretending to be more interested in his own new book than Aziraphale opening his. Aziraphale put the gifts on his desk and began unwrapping the top one while Crowley opened his own. It was a book of poetry. 

“I marked a few of my favorites, but remember no skipping ahead,” said Aziraphale.

“Er, right,” said Crowley, trying to remember if Aziraphale had ever given him poetry before. But then Aziraphale had his present open.

“ _Pride & Prejudice_?” read Aziraphale.

“Uh, yeah. Your copy’s an original. Figured you’d like one you didn’t have to worry as much about.”

That made Aziraphale smile at him. “Oh, how sweet of you, but didn’t you get me a new copy already?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, going so far as to take off his sunglasses to make sure the angel saw. “That was _Pride and Prejudice and ZOMBIES_ , Angel.”

“Ah, yes. Now I remember. Pentagram of Death!” Aziraphale chuckled and settled in his chair. Crowley went to the sofa and settled in. “Didn’t it get a movie too?”

“Yeah. We didn’t get a chance to go see it, but you could come over to my place and we could watch it sometime?” Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes. Crowley poured the wine and leaned to pass Aziraphale one of the glasses.

“I’d love to,” said Aziraphale, taking the glass, putting it on his desk, and opening his chocolates. “Oh, these look positively divine. Want one?” 

Crowley swallowed half of his wine in one go to wet his dry mouth and throat. “Not right now, Angel,” he managed to get out. Aziraphale popped a truffle in his mouth and settled back to read. Crowley sat angled so he could watch Aziraphale if he glanced up from his book. It was his favorite way to do this. 

Crowley could barely keep his attention on the book Aziraphale had given him. He was too focused on Aziraphale reading, and mentally kicking himself for picking that book. Aziraphale wasn’t going to get it. He wasn’t going to understand. He wouldn’t figure out what Crowley was trying to say.

I’m sorry. I was stupid. But look, I can be better. I have been better. So please forget what I said before. I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make you happy, just let me. Please give me a second chance.

Blue eyes caught his and Crowley felt his face redden. “Just as good as I remember,” said Aziraphale. Crowley’s eyes darted back down to his own book, still on the same page it had been the last twenty minutes. A sly glance up saw that Aziraphale had returned his attention to the book before him. Crowley, to look like he had any attention on his own book, flipped to the first white ribbon marker.

_I loved thee, though I told thee not,  
Right earlily and long,  
Thou wert my joy in every spot,  
My theme in every song._

Crowley’s heart stopped, then started again at about triple its usual speed. He tried to shake off the shock. Aziraphale had said he’d marked his favorites. That’s all it was, right? It was just a coincidence that the first bloody line was exactly what Crowley wanted to say to him, what he wanted to hear from him. He fumbled for his wine, nearly knocking it over and drained his glass. He put the book down to refill his glass.

“Would you mind?” asked Aziraphale, holding out his own glass. Crowley leaned over and obliged. “How are you liking it so far?”

“Uh, nice. Got to the first poem.”

“Ah, yes. Poor John. He was a sweet man.”

Oh. A friend wrote it. Of course that’s why it was one of his favorites. Crowley checked that Aziraphale wasn’t looking and then flipped to the next ribbon, not bothering to finish the first poem.

_I love your lips when they’re wet with wine  
And red with a wild desire;  
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies  
Lit with a passionate fire.  
I love your arms when the warm white flesh  
Touches mine in a fond embrace;  
I love your hair when the strands enmesh  
Your kisses against my face._

_Not for me the cold, calm kiss  
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;  
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,  
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.  
But give me the love that so freely gives  
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,  
With your body so young and warm in my arms,  
It sets my poor heart aflame._

_So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,  
Still fragrant with ruby wine,  
And say with a fervor born of the South  
That your body and soul are mine.  
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,  
While the pale stars shine above,  
And we’ll live our whole young lives away  
In the joys of a living love._

“Aziraphale!” shouted Crowley, back ramrod straight as he stared at the angel, and face flaming with a red flush.

Aziraphale looked up from his book, and took in Crowley, eyes flitting to the book still in his limp hands. “Oh! You promised you wouldn’t skip ahead.”

“I don’t care. What is going on here?”

“I wanted to share some of my favorite poems with you,” said Aziraphale. He closed his book and set it on his desk, then stood, moving to sit beside Crowley. “Which one did you read?” He leaned in, his face tauntingly close. “Oh, yes. That one.” His eyes caught Crowley’s. “I could never put what I feel into words as nice as this.”

Crowley’s heart stopped. “W-what you feel?”

“Dear.” Aziraphale took the book from Crowley’s hands and put it on the table, then he took Crowley’s hands in his. “I-”

Crowley clutched Aziraphale’s hands and pulled, yanking the angel off balance and towards him until their mouths crashed together. Aziraphale gave a startled squeak as Crowley cupped his face and kissed him. It was a clumsy, desperate kiss, but it held everything Crowley had ever wanted to say, ever been afraid to say, inside it.

Crowley swallowed hard when he pulled away, checking Aziraphale’s face. His angel gave him a sweet, soft smile and pulled him back for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Credit where credit is due. The first poem is the beginning of The Secret by John Clare and the second is I Love You by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Sorry, I forgot that when I originally posted.


End file.
